


Reading Is Fundamental

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Banter, Bono is a Little Shit, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 05:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge has only one thing on his mind. Unfortunately for him, Bono is more than a little distracted elsewhere.Set in 2001.





	Reading Is Fundamental

**Author's Note:**

> HI GUYS, quick note here because I'm not even meant to be writing fic, let alone writing long notes. So this was Inchy's idea, because it's usually Inchy's fault, let's be real here. They wanted something that is...sort of what I delivered here, except this is...well, it's almost crack, who am I kidding? But I'm not sorry, because this was a blast to write. And I set it in 2001, because I wanted Bono to be distracted in a certain way, but there is no specific timeframe here. 2001 was a tricky year with a shitload of angst, which I have ignored for the sake of something funny. I'm sure that there were some good days in the midst of all that angst, so yes?! Anyway, enjoy, ilu all xxx

It would be there if Edge opened the balcony door, he was sure of it. That particular scent that came with the promise of a storm. The clouds in the distance looked to have some teeth, and the ones above were a deep grey that wanted desperately to darken still, having already blotted out the sun and all that glorious blue. And with it all came the rain, an offering that was currently more of a lazy drizzle than anything worth writing home about, but the change would come and bring the expected downpour that the weatherman had been singing about on the television earlier that morning.

Edge hoped that it would all happen sooner rather than later. Not that it really mattered to them when they were safely inside and preparing to play an arena, but he hated to see the fans lining up outside in such weather. Let the rain come, let the lightning streak through the sky, but let it all be done, god willing, by mid-afternoon. It wasn’t too much to ask, he didn’t think. Not when the thought of lunch hadn’t yet been raised by a certain someone who used his voice for many things—many, _many_ things—yet still viewed lunch as easily being in his top ten of most important matters that needed attending to.

Of course, once lunch had been consumed its importance dropped down the list to, say, number seventy-eight, where it stayed for a good twenty-two hours or so before again rising at an alarming rate. And during those twenty-two hours emerged the importance of dinner and dessert and breakfast and drinks, both alcoholic and non—and it was food for thought, trying to figure out which Bono revered more on any given day, coffee or booze, but on days like today it seemed plausible to assume that he would prefer to put the two together and down them for that extra kick. Which he needed, since sleep often got shoved so far down that list that it looked as though it would never have a chance to be remembered again. 

But above any talk of food or drinks came the more pressing matters in Bono’s life, which were his family, his friends, his music and the world. Specifically, the state of it. And more specifically, what could be done to fix said state of it. Currently, it seemed as though that was number one on his list. Which usually Edge didn’t mind. Mostly. Not when he had his own distractions to get him through life and all the shit it threw at them. But on such a day, when outside was impossible and inside was a hotel room housing one incredibly interesting feature—Bono—and little else by way of entertainment, Edge found himself getting more than a little antsy.

They had at least three hours of peace before anyone came knocking to pull them from their little state of solitude. Three hours of just the two of them. A whole stretch of alone time that had been so hard to come by recently that Edge could barely remember when it had last happened for them. Sure, there had been nights when they had sought to hold onto that post-concert euphoria together, when they had come down in pieces and lay there in the quiet and darkened aftermath, the sound of the crowd still thundering deep within. And there had been interludes on other days, a quick ten minutes here, a _do not disturb_ sign that could only be ignored by their staff for so long—but thankfully, usually long enough.

But a whole stretch of time without interruptions? Recently, it was damn near impossible to even imagine.

Yet here they were, living it, and what was Bono doing to celebrate such a rarity? Reading a book on fucking economics. Curled up on the bed with a permanent frown as he lost himself in words that he deemed were “important to his cause”. And maybe they were. And maybe Edge respected that and the work that Bono was doing.

No, it wasn’t a maybe. Edge did respect all the work that Bono was doing. No, it was more than respect. Edge had never been so proud of Bono before, as much as it drove him batty to witness some of Bono’s means to an end, or the company he had found himself keeping. But the results were important to remember, especially when Edge was tempted to slam down the phone or throttle Bono for doing this or that or talking with . . . this or that, because it was hard to think of certain people as human beings. _That_ seemed a far more applicable label for some of those bastards.

But none of that mattered, because he was proud. He was so fucking proud of Bono, but on such a day with such a rare amount of alone time allotted to them, Edge couldn’t help but look past reason and focus only on the current number one topic on his list: sex.

What else could he think of, really, when significant alone time with them had frequently involved at least one person getting their jollies off?

Well, if he were to be actually truthful, it _had_ been on his mind since he’d awoken that morning, at least an hour before realizing that time was being gifted to them, but with that gift had come the urgency of his thought—singular, as it was easy to multitask with so many other things in life, yet when the thought of sex came along it came alone and preferred to stay that way until it was taken care of.

As it were, it didn’t look to be taken care of by Bono any time soon. But it was a pressing matter that just couldn’t be ignored any longer. A moment or so was all Edge found to have left in him before he had to leave the window and go entertain that thought in the bathroom, but it took only a few halting minutes before he gave in and concluded that it just wasn’t nearly enough.

No, he needed far more than what his hand could give him. So he returned to the bedroom with an idea on how they should spend the next hour, at least. But there Bono was still, halfway through a book about fucking economics, blissfully unaware of Edge’s erection as well as his staring, even when Edge gave in and stretched out closely at his side. _Very_ closely.

It wouldn’t do.

“You’re going to strain your eyes if you don’t take a break soon.”

Bono glanced at him briefly. “We’ll just add that to the pile of _what else could go wrong with Bono’s eyes_ then, shall we?”

It really wouldn’t do. “Or you could take a break?”

“Did you know,” Bono started like Edge hadn’t spoken, “that the gentleman who wrote this book won the Nobel Prize in economics a few years back? He’s as clever as you are, Edge. I wouldn’t dare say he’s even more clever than you, but others might.”

Edge hadn’t known that. Why would he have known that? Had Bono ever once seen him show more than a cursory interest in the book beyond its cover? Still, feigning interest usually was a good way to get one foot in the door. “That’s fascinating, B. What did he win for?”

Bono’s second look lasted a lot longer than the previous one. “What did I just say?”

Edge sighed. “Look, you can’t get snippy at me for not listening to you once when you’re constantly drifting away—”

“I don’t _drift_. When do I drift away while you’re talking? Give me one fucking example.”

A book could have been written filled with relevant examples, but mentioning that was likely a very bad idea indeed. A different tactic was needed. “It doesn’t matter,” Edge said with a smile that he hoped was as reassuring as it was a come on. “I suppose I was just distracted.”

“Oh yeah? By what?”

“You.”

The eyebrows went up. “Really?” Bono asked. “You’re throwing out _that_ line?”

Edge shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it’s a line. Can one word really be considered a line?”

“Has it worked on me in the past?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a line.”

“Okay, maybe it is a line,” Edge agreed before reaching out to rest his palm against Bono’s stomach. He wasn’t sure of the reaction he would receive, and the smile—as exasperated as it was—that Bono gave him was encouragement enough to pursue a bit further. Back and forth went his palm, bunching Bono’s black sweater and dragging it up far enough to show a little skin. “Did it work on you this time?”

“You really think you’re smooth, don’t you?”

“No,” Edge said, although it was partly a lie. “Just hopeful, I suppose.”

The open book came down against Bono’s chest as he regarded Edge, for so long that it looked as though success was on the cards. “Edge, you know I have to be prepared,” he said gently, and out the window went any thought of success. “I need to know this. Not just this, but—but everything, you know? If I go into a meeting or a call without doing my homework, then—”

“I know, I know, but . . .” Edge trailed off, unsure how to proceed. His hand, though, he let continue its back and forth for a few seconds longer, and then it was just forth from there. It was one way to proceed, he figured. A damn good way. When it came to Bono, where talking failed feeling it out usually succeeded. The skin of his stomach was warm against Edge’s palm, the hair coarse and familiar. It was a touch that Bono allowed, that even made a small smile emerge, which brought encouragement back into the equation. “I’m not asking you to drop everything for the rest of the day, just a few minutes. An hour, perhaps. Depending—”

“Feeling a little amorous, are we?”

It wasn’t really the word that Edge would have gone for. No, it didn’t have nearly the punch to describe what he was actually feeling. But it was enough to paint a picture, he supposed. “I am,” he murmured before leaning in to press his lips against Bono’s unshaven jaw. “I certainly am.”

“Well, you’ve got two hands, don’t you? I’m sure you can figure something out.” Bono winked. “In fact, I’m confident that you will.” The book was raised and immediately his attention was diverted back to it, which was a shame, really, as it meant he missed the expression that swiftly crossed Edge’s face.

“Are you serious?”

“Mostly, no. Right now, yes,” Bono said without glancing back. “You can do it right there if you want. I don’t think it’ll be too much of a distraction.”

“I would hope that it would distract you, at least a little,” Edge retorted.

“Try me.”

It was a trap. A way of killing two birds with one stone. To test it would mean that Edge would leave Bono alone, and to test it _properly_ would mean that Edge would be spent enough to leave Bono alone for at least a couple of hours. A cunning trap that Edge just wasn’t going to fall for. “No, I need you for this.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . because I want _you_ , you idiot.”

Bono turned away from his book to stare. It wasn’t a glare, nor was it a look of someone who had just been flattered, nor was it pure amusement. No, it was a mixture of the three, with a few more emotions thrown in for seasoning. “You know, your sweet talk leaves a lot to be desired, The Edge.”

“You always say that, and yet . . .”

“And yet . . .” Bono shook his head as though a _no_ was on the horizon, but the book came back down to rest against his chest, and when he turned back to Edge his look had taken on as much amusement as it could handle. On any other day, Edge might have been offended at his plight being viewed as little more than entertainment, but this wasn’t any other day, and being offended was the last thing that Edge could think to do. The book had come down and Bono was smiling—a _yes_ looked to be on the horizon. “What do you want to do?”

 _So many things_ , Edge could have easily answered. And he had in the past, and Bono had always appreciated it and delivered. But it seemed far too ambitious this time around when relenting still looked like it could be just around the corner. One thing. It really wasn't that hard for Edge to decide. He had awoken with a thought on his mind, singular. “I want to fuck you.”

“Really.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Hmm.” There was a beat as Bono thought it over. “How horny are you?”

It wasn’t the question that Edge had expected. _Very_ was the obvious answer, _extremely_ coming in a close second, yet they both sounded a little desperate to him. Instead, he simply grasped Bono’s hand and brought it down to press against his crotch. “Is that enough of an answer?”

“Very impressive,” Bono said wryly, not sounding that impressed at all. He didn’t rush to pull his hand away, however, which was the biggest win that Edge could currently think of. “I only ask because I’m curious to know whether you need my full participation in this.”

Edge paused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You want to fuck me, and I fully support that, Edge, I do, but I’ve got shit to do, so . . .” Bono left his sentence hanging there, his smile changing wickedly as he shrugged.

He was _un_ believable. “Are you serious?” Edge asked again. It was the only question that came to mind, and he was tempted to throw it out there again and again until Bono answered for his crimes, because Edge was certain, and had been even as the words had left his lips, that the only response he would get was either a line, or a follow-up question, or an excuse that wasn’t actually an excuse, or some bullshit—and really, who was he trying to kid? All those imagined responses fell into the bullshit category.

Bono happily went with the follow-up question. “Do you need my full participation?”

It really would not do. “I would prefer it,” Edge shot back.

“But are you worked up enough to not need it?” Another follow-up question, accompanied by a look that was intended to be probing, Edge was sure, yet didn’t come even close. Bono’s eyes seemed to be dancing, and that was great, just fucking beautiful, exactly what Edge had wanted to see going into this whole thing. He was actually looking at the devil personified. They had predicted it would happen a decade prior, and now here they were. But it was fine, just fine. If Bono wanted to play the game, then so be it. Edge would gladly meet him halfway, but with a clear advantage—he knew how to play dirty without feeling an ounce of guilt, unlike his opposing team.

“Do you really think that you can lie back and concentrate on your book while I’m fucking the life out of you?”

“Oh, Edge,” Bono said with a leer, slipping into his own personal brand of foreplay. “It’s a very stimulating read. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, what other choice do I have? I’ve got to finish this today, distractions or no distractions.”

“So that’s what I am to you now,” Edge said in mock-outrage as he dragged down Bono’s zipper, “just a distraction?”

“Did I say that you could do that yet?”

“Are you going to tell me to stop?”

“No, I was just shocked by your audacity,” Bono said before fixing Edge with a _look_. “What happened to that timid version of you who used to ask for permission first?”

“I’ve never been timid when it comes to you.”

“I clearly remember a couple of times—”

“Well, if I was then obviously you’ve corrupted me. Now, are we going to do this, or what?”

Bono grinned. “I’ve already answered that question, haven’t I?” He really was fucking unbelievable. “Way I see it is you’ve got two options: either we do this my way, or I leave you to your own devices."

Edge stared at him. “You really aren’t feeling it, are you?”

“Not at the moment, no, but more power to you for being interested enough for the both of us.”

“This is rare, you turning down sex.”

The laugh that Bono huffed out sounded more than a little long-suffering. “Am I turning it down? No. Focus, Edge,” he said.  “This is me saying fuck it, use me for whatever, have your fun if you need it, but try and keep it down so I can concentrate, you know?”

Edge paused. “You know you’re fucking batshit insane, right?”

The wink came right on schedule. “I’m a rock star, love, the world wouldn’t have me any other way.” And with that said Bono turned back to his book, seemingly oblivious to the hand in his pants as he left Edge to deliberate all on his own.

It was quite the situation. One that he didn’t appear to be able to talk his way out of. There would eventually come a day when he broke down and contacted the people at Oxford to demand that they print Bono’s picture beneath the definition of the word _stubborn_ , because surely there was no one else in the entire fucking world better suited to it. But that was a problem for another time, for a day when he wasn’t so focused on reaching such an important end goal. He had to think, and quickly now, before he lost the spark that was threatening to turn into something far duller and less invigorating.

An ultimatum had been handed to him. But was he feeling desperate enough to give it a try? After all, he would still be fucking Bono even without the full participation, and that was what he was after—kind of. And, really, it wouldn’t be the first time they had done it without Bono’s full attention on the matter at hand.

There had been that one night that Edge could remember, in either New Orleans or Miami—or it might even have been Vancouver, actually, but what did it matter?—where they had found themselves in the mood in front of the television during prime time. It wasn’t like Edge to be so self-congratulatory, but he was confident in his performance, and that night especially he was pretty certain he’d been doing a bang-up job of it, up until the moment that Bono had started laughing halfway through, more focused on what was happening on _The Simpsons_ than what was inside of him.

There was a chance that Edge was still a little bitter about that experience. But it didn’t matter. The past was the past, and all that was currently important was the present, and the number one topic on his list: sex. Yes, he was horny, or amorous, or in the mood, or however else they could think to label it together, and maybe he was feeling it bad enough to not care a lick about Bono’s participation, or lack thereof. And maybe he was a little curious to see whether Bono could keep his word and stay glued to his book. And maybe, just maybe, he was into the idea of using Bono for his own gratification and nothing else.

But who was there in his head to judge him? Bono, but only sometimes, when he was feeling especially perceptive. Right now, he was too busy with his nose in his book to even try. Was he even reading though? When was the last time he had turned a page? Was he _faking_ it?

It was hard to know with Bono. Mostly, he wore his heart and intentions on his sleeve, but then there came those days like today when he was as elusive as Edge preferred to be. They truly made an interesting pair.

It had to be part of the game. He was almost sure of it. With the way that Bono was looking at that book of his, almost _too_ intently . . . it was definitely part of the game. What choice did Edge have but to play along? He would be a fucking idiot not to. It was happening, no doubt about it. He was going for it.

“I’m probably going to go hard,” he warned as he undid his pants.

“Yeah? You’re in that sort of mood, are you?” Bono asked, his tone vague. “Good for you.”

“I’m just warning you—”

“Mmm.”

“—so you’re prepared for it, and can let me know if I’m going too hard.”

Bono smirked, the rest of him remaining completely apathetic as he said, “Okay, big boy, do your worst. I’m ready.”

 _Big boy . . .?_ That was a new one. The sarcastic tone that Bono had employed whilst saying it, however, was old hat. Was it a dig at Edge’s penis size? Did Edge even care? Not currently. He was too damn horny to be offended, by any of it. Still, he couldn’t help but try and get the last line in. After all, life with Bono was a competition, one that Edge was determined to come out on top and win. “We’re all alone, you know. I could quite happily smother you with one of these pillows and no one would come to your aid until it was far too late.”

“Edge, you know I love when you talk dirty to me, but please,” Bono said, nodding towards his book. “Can we save any talk of murdering me for a time when we’re on the same page and I’m not so busy?”

“Sure,” Edge muttered. “I’ve no doubt it will come up again before we know it.”

"No doubt," Bono agreed, before quickly adding, "You know, it's almost lunchtime," like lunch was the most important matter at hand.

"I'm well aware."

"I'm gettin' a bit peckish, actually."

"I'm shocked."

Bono briefly glanced up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not a damn thing, B. You'll get fed, don't worry."

"Hmm," Bono let out after a brief pause, and that was that. Back to his book he went, leaving Edge to do whatever he fucking pleased.

He didn’t bother making a show of stripping, as there clearly wasn’t a demand for it from the audience, but once he was naked and ready to move on, the question of how he should proceed again reared its ugly head. How exactly was he to undress Bono? Should he drag it out and hopefully drive Bono crazy, in more ways than one? Or was it better to just get in and out as quickly as he could, and make it seem like he really didn’t give two shits about anything but his own gratification? And if he chose the latter option, would that still end up driving Bono a little crazy, or would it perhaps make him even crazier than the first option?

Edge went for the second option. It was far more intriguing, he thought.

It did not drive Bono crazy. Not outwardly, anyway. He barely batted an eyelid as Edge removed his pants, his only reaction being to lift his hips when the time came for it. Apparently, that was really how it was going to be. _Fuck it_ , Edge thought as he situated himself between Bono’s spread legs, lube in hand. _Fuck it all_. He was going for it, and if Bono wanted to come along for the ride, then so be it. If not, then whatever—the consent was there, he had the permission, so what was stopping him from going in hard? Not a fucking thing.

Still, he kept a close watch as he worked Bono open, a part of him determined to catch any reaction or change in the situation, any hint that Bono was going to give in, but it didn’t come. Not in his expression, anyway. He did shift his hips a little to further accommodate the act, which was . . . Edge supposed that was something. Not much, but it was a reaction of sorts. But, as was often the case, it was Bono’s cock that gave him away. The rest of him might have appeared disinterested in what was going on, but there was no hiding the reaction happening where it counted the most.

“I think you should read this book when I’m done with it,” Bono said, his tone deceptively airy. “It’s good to expand your mind, don’t you think?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be concentrating?”

Bono merely smiled in response, and silence returned between them, interrupted only by the sound that Edge’s fingers were making. Another thirty seconds or so was all he could manage before he had to draw his fingers out and make his move. Any longer and Edge was pretty certain that he might have lost his fucking mind. He’d been waiting for this since the moment he’d opened his eyes that morning, after all—but did anyone ever congratulate him for showing such restraint time and time again? No. Of course not. Not when there was a book on fucking economics to be read.

With a quick hand, Edge slicked himself before pushing Bono’s legs up and holding them there until he needed his right hand for guidance. He eased in slowly, watching Bono’s face for the reaction he expected, even now, and it came in the form of a hard swallow and parting lips. He didn’t squeeze his eyes closed but his eyelashes did flutter, and that was enough for Edge, for now, but nowhere near the win that he was searching for. It would come. Or it wouldn’t. Whatever. Who even cared anymore? He was exactly where he’d wanted to be, wasn’t that the biggest win that he could ever ask for? He got to do this whenever he wanted to. Within reason. There were conditions, of course. There were always conditions, but why even start mulling over them at a time when _move_ should have been the only thought on his mind?

Edge moved. The first few thrusts he kept slow, allowing Bono that one mercy before changing it up a bit, gripping those thighs as he rolled his hips in time to a beat that was constantly trying to evade him, before pulling out nearly all the way. And Edge hadn’t really thought too much about what he expected to happen in their immediate future, but he had at least figured that Bono would hold out for as long as he possibly could. So it was a bit of a surprise when it took only that next deep thrust for the book to fall from his hands and onto the bed beside him, even if the expression on his face remained that of a man determined to be seen as someone who was completely disinterested in his immediate surroundings.

It wouldn’t last. He was hard. The colour was starting to rise at his neck. He was already breathing heavy, in a way that would soon turn completely. No, it definitely would not last. And it didn’t. Before Edge could even think about losing control he felt Bono’s thighs quiver beneath his palms—only briefly, as though he was trying to hold back—and then came the sharp huff of breath that gave way to a groan that was cut off before it had a chance to fully experience the world.

“You like this?” Edge asked only because he already knew the answer. Who was winning? He was. And from the look that Bono gave him—one that wanted to be withering, but instead came out looking only like bedroom eyes—they both knew it. “You like being used?” It had sounded so sexy in Edge’s head, yet he was tempted to cringe as soon as he said it. It was more like bad dialogue in a porno film than sexy. _Had_ it been bad dialogue in a porno film? Was that where he’d gotten from? Or was he just trying to pass off the blame instead of owning up to his mistakes? Wait . . . was Bono _into_ it?

Christ, he was. “You like being used?” Edge asked once more, only because he wanted to make sure. Bono responded by rocking his hips and groaning again, a full-throated groan this time that he didn’t dare interrupt. It was enough to puff up Edge’s ego just that little bit. And then a little bit more. This was the part that he loved the most: the reminder of just how into him Bono truly was. It went both ways, of course. And Edge was happy to remind Bono any way that he possibly could of his own adoration—not that a reminder was needed, but still, it was nice—but for now he wanted to make Bono sing, because it was all for him, all of it, and it was needed.

There was a punishing pace that, when employed, almost always crumbled Bono into pieces, far quicker than he was ever prepared for. Yet after all this time, knowing what they both knew, somehow it still managed to take him by surprise when Edge pushed ahead in a way that had made Bono call him a cruel, cruel bastard more than once, but mostly just brought Bono closer to God and left him thankful for the experience in the aftermath.

It started with a cry that ripped from his throat and rippled through the room, and sounded twice more as he arched his spine and gripped at the back of his thighs, pulling his knees up closer to his chest and holding them there as he let out, “Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” looking like a man who was in far too deep with only one way out.

And on another day he might have been too stubborn to follow that route to higher ground—Edge knew this from past experiences. He might even have been too stubborn only minutes beforehand as he held onto that book and wore that satisfied little smile of his that said _who is in control here? Who do you think? Yes, this world belongs to God, baby, but right now I’m housekeeping this little section of his, so it’s me and my way to the end of the line, but if you need to feel big about it of course you can take what you need and pretend as though you’ve won the battle. Come on, what’s keeping you? Show me what you’ve got . . . big boy._

It was a smile that was intimately familiar, but it had been left in the dust and replaced with a slack mouth that knew only moans and groans, the type of sounds that invariably accompanied such a punishing pace and made Edge burn and burn inside and out with want, with need and urgency and fear and slow down and speed up, make it last, make it happen now, for fuck sake just make _something_ happen before they spontaneously combusted, now, _now_. A snap of his hips, a deep roll, a cry that almost resembled the word _fuck_ but not quite, that started off sharp but lost its edges as Bono crumbled completely, thighs shaking against both of their grasps as he arched and pulsed and clenched and _clenched_ around Edge’s cock—and who was the cruel bastard now? Who was so quick to bring them both down together? It was him, it was him, the feel of him, the smell of him, not the rain outside, no, better, so much better, slow down speed up now now _now._

Edge didn’t spontaneously combust, but in the immediate aftermath as he searched for his missing breath and relived the moment in his head in glorious slow motion, he quickly concluded that he’d been damn close to going up in flames. And it was still there in part, that feeling that he’d been missing since he’d opened his eyes that morning, that forced him to start moving once again at a languid pace that Bono matched with the stroke of his own hand.

That lazy smile of his was always catching. Sometimes, all Edge could do was look away before he lost himself completely. But he didn’t dare do such a stupid thing this time around.

No, he just kept on looking as he rolled out the last of it, replacing the hand at Bono’s cock with his own as the tiniest of aftershocks shuddered through them both, smiling like he’d just discovered the last of the golden tickets. And he was so pleased with how things had turned out that it was impossible to feel anything else but pure elation even when Bono turned that smile away and followed his searching gaze with an unsteady hand, his breath not even close to evening out as he picked up the closed book and frowned at it.

“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” he groaned. “I’ve lost my place.”


End file.
